The lofty ducal residence,
That fronts some Surrey riverside,
Would wound his socialistic sense,
And pain his patriotic pride;
He would not change for Castles Highland
His cabbage-patch on Coney Island.
A statue in some Roman street,
A palace of Venetian gilding,
Appear to him not half so sweet
As any modern Vanderbuilding;
He views, without an envious throe,
The wolf that suckled Romeo!
Roast beef, or frogs, or sauerkraut,
Their mead of praise from some may win;
Our hero cannot do without
Peanuts and clams and terrapin;
Away from home, his soul would lack
The cocktail and the canvasback.
Not his to walk the crowded Strand;
'Mid busy London's jar and hum.
On quiet Broadway he would stand,
Saying "Americanus sum!"
His smile so tranquil, so seraphic,—
Small wonder that it stops the traffic!
Who would not be a man like he,
(This lapse of grammar pray forgive,)
So simply satisfied to be,
Contented with his lot to live,—
Whether or not it be, I wot,
A little lot,—or quite a lot?
Content with any kind of fare,
With any tiny piece of earth,
So long as he can find it there
Within the land that gave him birth;
Content with simple beans and pork,
If he may eat them in New York!
O persons who have made your pile,
And spend it far across the seas,
Like landlords of the Em'rald Isle,
Denounced notorious absentees,
I pray you imitate the Master,
And stay at home like Mr. Astor!
But if you go abroad at all,
And leave your fatherland behind you,
Without an effort to recall
The sentimental ties that bind you,
I should be grateful if you could
Contrive to stay away for good!